


What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?

by almostvirginia



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anxiety, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, M/M, Marriage Proposal, New Year's Eve, One Shot, Romance, Social Media, Surprises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 18:17:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17228843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almostvirginia/pseuds/almostvirginia
Summary: It's New Year's Eve, and Yuuri has a burning question to ask Victor.He just has to find him first.





	What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?

**Author's Note:**

> What?? A one-shot that didn't develop into 50k+ while I was writing it?? I don't know who I am anymore.
> 
> This is pointless holiday fluff, and I don't have a good excuse for myself. I was just alone in a hotel room, reading about Russian New Year's customs with a certain festive song stuck in my head. Please forgive any Russian cultural or linguistic inaccuracies, just doing my best with what Google gives me!

Katsuki Yuuri was the dumbest man alive.

He’d had reason to suspect as much several times during his life. Once, when he’d let Phichit talk him into going out for _just one drink_ the night before final exams. Another time, in his younger days, when he’d been curious about Vicchan’s enthusiasm for a certain brand of dog treat and decided to taste one. That memorable time he’d given Victor Nikiforov a golden ring _on the steps of a church_ and not realized it could _maybe_ be mistaken for a marriage proposal. They’d at least been able to laugh about that one later, though Yuuri still worried in the back of his anxiety-riddled mind that Victor might be holding on to some hurt he wasn’t talking about.

But all of those paled in comparison to his current situation. It was dumb enough to try to plan a surprise trip to see Victor, when by his nature he was going to panic about what could go wrong every day leading up to it. It was dumber to make it an _international_ surprise, with Victor in Russia and Yuuri in Japan, and Yuuri unable to consult him about his plans without ruining said surprise. It was _monumentally fucking stupid_ to attempt this on New Year’s Eve, when the streets of St. Petersburg were thick with people, and when anyone with half a brain could assume Victor would have plans. He at least should have consulted with Victor’s rinkmates, though in his defense, they were such a loud-mouthed group he might as well have just told Victor himself. God, why _hadn’t_ he?

They’d been separated for over a week, tied up with their respective Nationals competitions. Yuuri had wanted to return to St. Petersburg right away, but Victor had been scheduled for a blistering gauntlet of interviews, sponsorship meetings, and other unpleasant-but-necessary business in the run up to the New Year. Since Yuuri hadn’t spent much time with his family while traveling for the season, they’d agreed he would stay at Yu-Topia for the last week of the year, and Victor would join him for a short visit once he’d finished his business in Russia.

This had been a perfectly sound plan, and while Yuuri hadn’t been looking forward to another week away from his boyfriend, he’d made his peace with it. Such was the life of professional athletes; there was no sense in being too clingy. He’d been resigned to waiting for Victor at the onsen until, slouching gloomily at his desk, he’d done a search for Russian New Year customs. And he’d come across an apparently famous saying.

Как Новый год встретишь, так его и проведешь.

_The way you meet the new year is the way you’ll spend it._

Yuuri tried desperately to cling to his pragmatism, in most things. He didn’t put great stock in axioms or proverbs. But one didn’t become a professional figure skater without having at least a _little_ flair for the dramatic, buried deep down somewhere, and once Yuuri had read those words he couldn’t get them out of his head. How did he want to spend the new year?

The image had flashed into his head instantly: burrowed into the couch with Victor (any couch, anywhere, it didn’t matter what city or country as long as it was in a home they shared), Makkachin splayed across their laps, laughing at nothing with their fingers intertwined. A pair of gold rings on their hands—and not good-luck charms, this time.

How did he want to spend the new year? It was the easiest question in the world. He wanted to spend it with Victor. Not just for the night, or until the next time they saw each other, but for _good,_ with an eternal promise that they were in it for life. And having come to that conclusion, he’d immediately known he wanted to surprise Victor. After all, what did Victor Nikiforov love most in the world (besides Makkachin and, just maybe, Yuuri)? The unexpected.

Arrangements had been made, bags had been packed, speeches had been half-formed and discarded, and Yuuri had boarded a 20-hour flight. But that flight had been made up of two connections, and one of them had been delayed, and now instead of arriving at 4 PM when he was reasonably sure Victor would be home, he Yuuri found himself standing outside Victor’s door at 10 PM. (Yuuri lived there too, in theory—he’d filed all the paperwork, anyway—but their time together had thus far been lived out of suitcases rather than apartments, and he didn’t really think of it as _his_ yet.) It had taken him five clammy, shaking minutes to get up the nerve to knock, and when he had, he’d been greeted by Makkachin barking. He’d waited patiently, knocked a second time, but no footsteps ever approached the door. Sighing at last, he’d fished out his own key and let himself in, laughing as Makkachin jumped all over him in joy.

“Hi, Makka. I missed you too.” He started into the apartment, Makkachin hot on his heels. “Vitya?” he called tentatively, but no answer came.

The apartment was so tidy, it could almost have been a model home in a magazine. In fact it _had_ been in a few magazines, but these days, there were a few tells that it was more lived-in. The nightstands beside the bed held framed photos: one of Yuuri and Makkachin on the beach in Hasetsu on Victor’s side, a snapshot of the two of them in their Grand Prix pair skate costumes on Yuuri’s. Yuuri took a moment to sit on the edge of the bed, picking up Victor’s pillow and pressing his face into it. He inhaled deeply, feeling a little of the travel stress drain out of him at the familiar scent of Victor’s hair. But the man himself remained stubbornly absent, and Yuuri realized he hadn’t thought past this point at all. In his fantasies of surprising Victor, he’d imagined his boyfriend coming to the door; unless he wanted to text him and ruin the surprise, Yuuri had no idea how he was going to find him.

“Where’d he go, Makka?” Yuuri asked softly, scratching the poodle behind the ears. Makkachin panted happily, but otherwise didn’t offer any useful information.

Well, Yuuri was on a deadline. He’d done some research on New Year’s customs in St. Petersburg, and at least he didn’t have to find Victor by midnight; the celebrations seemed to go until well past 3 AM, when the fireworks would start. Reluctantly, he pulled out his phone. He supposed it would still be surprising that he’d arrived in Russia, even if he had to break down and ask Victor where he was. Maybe he could find some way to ask without giving it away; if Victor had already started drinking, maybe he would be tipsy enough not to question—

Yuuri’s train of thought was interrupted by a notification on his phone. He nearly dropped it in his haste to unlock it, but his heart sank when he saw that it was just an Instagram notification from Phichit. He felt an irrational stab of irritation; he didn’t have _time_ for social media right now, damn it, he had to—

Wait.

Oh.

Yuuri was the dumbest man alive.

He unlocked his phone and thumbed through Instagram, cursing himself for not thinking of it sooner. There were many annoyances that came with dating a social media addict—always being half-afraid that their private moments would show up on Instagram, having to compete for attention with his phone—but there was one definite upside: the man left a trail of digital breadcrumbs everywhere he went. Sure enough, the moment Yuuri pulled up the story for **v-nikiforov** , he found what he was looking for. Victor had posted from the rink less than thirty minutes ago, laughing and surrounded by his rinkmates: Georgi, Mila, Yuri Plisetsky. Yakov hunched irritably in the middle of the frame, and Mila was attempting to force some kind of furry hat onto his head. Victor had added a crudely drawn beard to Yakov’s face, then labeled him in glittering text, Дед Мороз!! Yuuri pulled up his translation app and carefully typed it in, but it wasn’t helpful. Who the hell was Ded Moroz?

He shook off his confusion, filing it away to look up later. Snatching his keys back up, he ran for the door, pausing only to hug a disappointed Makkachin. If he hurried, maybe he could make it to the rink before Victor left.

 

* * * * * 

He didn’t.

Yuuri knew it was too late the moment the rink came into view. The building was dark, obviously closed down for the night. He tried the door anyway, but it stayed stubbornly locked. He sighed, stripping off a glove with his teeth and pulling his phone back out. When he saw that Victor had updated his story, his heart leapt—another clue?—but it was only a picture of food, a close-up of a pirozhki without any accompanying text or location.

Well, _that_ wasn’t helpful. Victor could be eating pirozhki anywhere, though it definitely looked like someone’s home, not a restaurant. Someone had invited Victor over for dinner, then? Yuuri fought down a pang of insecurity; it had to be one of Victor’s friends, someone Yuuri knew. Squinting at the pirozhki, Yuuri thought it looked familiar; something about the shape, maybe, or the particular shade of golden brown? On a hunch, he typed in a different username: **yuri-plisetsky**.

“Yes!” The most recent post on Yurio’s profile was a wider shot of an apartment, one Yuuri had never seen before. Victor and Mila sat at the kitchen table, toasting with what looked like vodka; Georgi stood at the stove, dishing something out onto a plate. And in the center of the table, a pile of pirozhkis, which Yuuri would bet money had been baked by Yurio’s grandfather. Judging by their positions in the photo—Victor and Mila clearly guests, Georgi working on dinner—Yuuri guessed it was Georgi’s flat. His momentary surge of satisfaction at having figured this out was quickly stamped out by the realization that he had _absolutely_ no idea where Georgi lived, and obviously Yurio hadn’t tagged the photo with a street address.

Yuuri slumped against the door of the rink, letting his head fall back against the glass with a _thunk._ It was nearly midnight, he was freezing, and his trail of breadcrumbs had dried up. Unless...should he ask Yurio? It seemed stupid, to ask the loudest and angriest member of the group to help him keep a secret—but deep down, Yuuri knew Yurio cared about him and Victor, approved of their relationship. It was a slim chance, but maybe he’d be willing to help.

The door Yuuri was leaning on suddenly opened; too startled to catch himself, he overbalanced and landed hard on his back. Swearing, he squinted up to see who had opened the door, and his blood froze in his veins as it always did when he saw that scowl: Yakov. Somehow, despite having gotten to know him (and according to Victor, even impressed him), Yuuri was still terrified of the man. This was not the way he would have chosen to greet him on his home turf.

“Katsuki,” Yakov said gruffly, eyebrows drawing together in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

Oh God, he was going to start babbling, he could feel it building and he couldn’t stop it. “I was trying to find Victor and I thought he was here but the doors were locked so I was looking through Instagram and I think he’s at Georgi’s but I don’t know the address so—”

“No, idiot boy. What are you doing _here?_ In Russia?” he added, volume rising steadily throughout this short speech. Yuuri’s heart rate and blood pressure rose with it, pounding in his ears so hard he couldn’t think of any excuse but the truth.

“Asking Victor to marry me,” he managed at last, face burning. _Why did I tell_ Yakov, _of all people? What is wrong with me? I am the dumbest man alive. He’s going to laugh at me, or yell at me, or_ oh God, _he’ll tell Victor—_

Yakov scrutinized Yuuri’s face for a long moment, then huffed in what sounded like derision and took a step away. Yuuri closed his eyes, willing the concrete to open up and swallow him. But a few seconds later, Yakov’s voice sounded again, softer this time.

“Ulitsa Mayakovskogo, 23. Apartment 12.” Yuuri opened his eyes, and Yakov was extending a hand down to help him up, without looking at him. His face looked as grouchy as ever, but he waved his hand impatiently, beckoning. Yuuri took his hand, pulling himself to his feet and staring. He stood for a moment, rubbing his hip where he’d banged it painfully on the concrete, and Yakov whirled on him.

“Well? I gave you what you need! Are you going to go or keep staring at me all night? Get out of the doorway so I can lock up!” Yuuri scrambled out of his way, and Yakov locked the door, muttering under his breath in Russian. When he turned to see Yuuri still standing there, he turned nearly purple with annoyance. He fished in his pocket, thrusting something out at Yuuri, which he numbly accepted. It was a key.

“Next time you come to this rink in the middle of the night, let yourself in.” Yuuri nodded, and Yakov sighed impatiently. “Now, if you do not get out of my face and in a cab in the next thirty seconds, I will withdraw my permission for you to marry Vitya.”

“I—but—”

“Twenty-seven,” Yakov intoned, looking at his watch. Yuuri turned and bolted for the main road, waving frantically over his shoulder.

“Thank you, Yakov! Thank you!”

_“TWENTY-ONE,”_ Yakov bellowed back, echoing through the buildings as Yuuri ran.

* * * * *

The text came when he was nearly to Georgi’s building, sitting in the back of the cab.

_Where were you last night, Солнышко? I tried to call._

And then another, moments later:

_Sorry, I know it’s early._

Yuuri had been wondering when this might happen; he couldn’t remember the last time he and Victor had gone a full day without speaking. Unable to come up with a good enough reason in advance, he’d simply turned off his phone, hoping he’d be with Victor in St. Petersburg before he had time to get really worried or suspicious. His fingers hovered over his screen—he could keep it simple, say he’d lost his phone or gotten tied up with something—before he realized that of _course_ he couldn’t respond now. It wasn’t quite seven A.M. in Hasetsu; if Victor knew Yuuri was awake, he’d be suspicious in an instant. Feeling a little guilty, he pocketed his phone again, fervently thankful he’d turned off read receipts.

The cab pulled up in front of a large building, not lavish but very pretty, and he paid in a rush, managing “keep the change” in broken Russian. At the door to the building, he paused. How was he going to buzz in? He could hardly call up to Georgi’s apartment and announce himself; Victor would hear. Unless...could he pretend to be someone else? Maybe delivering something? Surely they were all a little drunk by now. He could disguise his voice well enough for a couple of words.

“Доставка для Попо́вич,” he said aloud, pitching his voice gruff and low. “Доставка для Попо́вич, доставка для Попо́вич.” A woman passing by on the street gave him a strange look, quickening her steps a little. Heart pounding, Yuuri pressed the buzzer for apartment 12, the practiced Russian on the tip of his tongue. He waited thirty seconds, then buzzed again. And again. “Доставка для Попо́вич,” he said for no reason, a pleading note creeping into his voice.

Nobody was coming. Yuuri had missed him again.

The temptation to give up and wait for Victor at the apartment was stronger than ever. Yuuri wasn’t sure his toes were ever going to thaw, and his social anxiety was skyrocketing at the thought of talking to yet _another_ cab driver. He was tired, so tired, and Victor was out having fun without him. Maybe it would still count if he started the new year in Victor’s apartment? He picked up his phone, intending to map out the distance between Georgi’s apartment and Victor’s, but paused when he looked at his lock screen.

It was a photo of Victor, a selfie taken on their last morning together before parting ways for Nationals. Victor had stolen Yuuri’s phone while he slept, snapping a photo of himself for Yuuri to discover in his camera roll later. Victor looked sleep-tousled and warm, eyes soft above a radiant smile. The tiniest hint of his bare chest was visible above the bottom of the frame, and Yuuri could see his own hair peeking in from the side. It was a photo that always squeezed at Yuuri’s heart, filling him with an impossible joy he couldn’t express, couldn’t contain.

Yuuri hadn’t become a different person since meeting Victor. He still worried, more or less constantly; in fact, in some ways, his anxiety was worse now that he had more to lose. When he and Victor were together, he could usually lose himself enough in Victor’s smile, his blue eyes, the slide of their bodies together, and forget his insecurities for a while. But inevitably, when they were separated, the old self-flagellation kicked back into high gear. Why would Victor tie himself down with Yuuri, when the man drew eyes as easily as he drew breath? It seemed utterly impossible that the idol he’d plastered his walls with as a boy—the living legend, the golden god of the ice, the hottest bachelor in skating—could truly want to build a life with plain, unremarkable Katsuki Yuuri. Not the way Yuuri wanted that with him.

But then he looked at this photo, left for him without fanfare or agenda, and he reminded himself that Victor Nikiforov was not the idol he’d bought posters of for years. Victor was a _person,_ warm, breathing, human. He had rumpled hair in the mornings and sleep in his eyes. He smiled at Yuuri in a way that was _real,_ beautiful and honest in a way magazines never managed to capture. He cried and snored and got papercuts and burned toast, and he loved Yuuri. Yuuri was sure of it. Totally sure. (Almost totally sure.)

Suddenly, Yuuri couldn’t bear to be apart from Victor for another moment, could not possibly return to the apartment and wait for him. He opened Instagram again with a renewed sense of purpose, looking for the most recently updated story: Victor again. It was a video this time, his friends weaving through a packed crowd, drinks in their gloved hands. The music in the background was so loud, it sounded distorted coming through Yuuri’s phone speakers. Yurio was shouting something at Mila, but it was too muffled and too Russian for Yuuri to understand. Victor turned the camera on himself, beaming, though there was something _off_ about his smile. It took Yuuri three rewatchings to understand: that was Victor’s public smile, his magazine-spread smile. Not his real one.

Whatever they were doing, Victor wasn’t happy.

Yuuri had to get to him. Fortunately, the background of the video was recognizable enough that even Yuuri didn’t need a location tag. The crowd was clearly packed into Palace Square, right along the banks of the Neva. The idea of fighting his way through that crowd made him nearly dizzy with anxiety, but there was no question in his mind. He was going to the Square, he was going to find Victor, and he was going to ask him. 

* * * * *

Getting to the Square was the first hurdle. The Uber he called was, unsurprisingly, in surge pricing, and traffic had been completely stopped along Nevsky Prospekt. After crawling along clogged back roads for nearly forty-five minutes, his impatience threatening to erupt, Yuuri flung his door open in bumper-to-bumper traffic and leapt out of the car. Fuck his Uber rating.

He ran the eight blocks between himself and Palace Square, dodging between clumps of people and hurling breathless apologies over his shoulder. It was closing in on 2:15, and if he didn’t find Victor soon, he was going to miss watching the fireworks with him. Of course, once he reached Palace Square, he stood looking over it in horror. The crowd was one of the densest he’d ever seen; people seemed to be nestled together without an inch of personal space. It was a sea of heads all the way to the river, and the odds of finding a single one in all that mess—even one as distinctively silver and tall as Victor’s—seemed insurmountable.  

But Yuuri had beaten worse odds before, and like anything else, the only way to finish was to start. He pushed his way into the teeming mass of people, cursing his genes for his height, staring at chests and shoulders no matter where he turned. His anxiety spiked, and spiked again, filling his bloodstream with adrenaline. The first time a person stumbled into him, his breathing picked up in speed. The second time, it turned harsh and panting. By the third time, Yuuri was fighting down a full-blown panic. He reached for his phone, hoping to see if Victor had updated his story with a more specific location, but it was knocked from his hand by a drunken passerby. It clattered to the ground, and Yuuri dove after it, snatching it out of the path of a high-heeled shoe. Fighting for breath, and with the world going tunneled and echoing around him, he managed to crawl to the base of a lamppost and pull himself up against it.

Yuuri clung to the post, chest heaving, and tried to calm himself down. _Stupid, stupid,_ hissed one part of his brain, while the more rational part recited _in through your nose, out through your mouth._ He lifted his phone again, focusing on the Victor on his lock screen, drawing in shaky breaths through his nose and trying to slow the pounding of his heart. Though there was a clock right there on his screen, he lost track of how long he stood there, unable to take his eyes off Victor’s. When at last he could lift his head without nausea threatening to overwhelm him, he checked the time.

2:47 A.M.

Shit.

Yuuri wrenched off his glove again, opening up Instagram and thumbing frantically through the Russian skaters’ stories. Victor had posted again, but just a photo of his friends in the middle of the crowd. Yurio had taken a video of a musical performance on a stage Yuuri could see out of the corner of his eye. Georgi had posted a long, drunken video of himself, tearfully explaining how he’d come here with Anya in previous years. Mila hadn’t posted anything at all.

Yuuri was about to tear his hair out in frustration. He was _here,_ he and Victor were in the same damn square, and he _still_ couldn’t find him. Almost five hours of searching, and all he had to show for it was a key to the ice rink and an aborted panic attack. His phone vibrated in his hand and he glared at it, furious at yet another pointless interruption, but—

_Still sleeping? I thought maybe you’d be up by now._

Yuuri was paralyzed with indecision. He couldn’t respond without Victor wanting to know where he’d been, and while he was all right with evading his questions, he didn’t want to outright lie to him. On the other hand, he was out of options. Maybe he should just respond, ask Victor where he was, and go find him. It would still be romantic, right?

But he’d come _so far_ to surprise him.

_Just getting up,_ he texted back. It wasn’t technically a lie; he _had_ been on the ground.

The reply came almost immediately. _Can I call you?_

_Not yet. Sorry. I’ll explain later, I promise._ He hoped he wasn’t coming off too cold; he wanted to throw Victor off the scent, not make him—

From somewhere close to his right, Yuuri heard a familiar sound. It was Makkachin’s bark. Not his real bark, but a tinny, recorded version that Yuuri had heard a million times—the version Victor used as his text alert.

He didn’t even stop to think. Flinging his arms up, he hoisted himself onto the lamppost, climbing up above the sea of people and looking down. He scanned frantically, knowing he was close, knowing he was _right there—_

_“Victor!”_ he shouted at last, throwing caution to the wind, desperate to find him. “Vic—”

His second shout was drowned out by a deafening boom, the first of the fireworks bursting in the sky. The whole crowd turned in unison, oohing appreciatively at the explosion of blue light. Yuuri spared it the barest glance before looking back down, and with every face turned the same direction, he saw him at last.

Victor stood off to the side, near a low wall, his rinkmates nowhere in sight. He watched the fireworks with an unreadable expression on his face, and Yuuri took a moment to appreciate how beautiful he was, how perfect. The blaze of the fireworks lit up his angular jaw and fine-boned nose in sharp relief, and shone off his blue eyes in a startling halo. The thought crossed his mind again: _I can’t believe he’s mine._

But then Victor turned, facing away from the fireworks, and began pushing his way through the crowd. Away from Yuuri, whose blood ran cold.

“Victor!” he shouted again, shimmying down the lamppost as quickly as he could. “Wait, Victor!” Between the fireworks and the din of the crowd, there was next to no chance Victor would hear him, but he kept it up as he shoved after him. “Wait!”

He’d seen where Victor was going; he was aiming for the edge of the crowd along a side street, where a stand of cabs stood idling. Why was he _leaving?_ The fireworks were the high point of the night, everyone stayed to watch them, it didn’t make any sense. He hurried along in Victor’s wake, no longer bothering to apologize, so close he could almost reach out and touch him. The crowd started to thin as he approached the edge, and he put on a burst of speed, he was going to make it—

Yuuri tripped over someone’s foot, and with all his attention focused on Victor, he wasn’t ready for it. He went sprawling hard across the stones, his glasses flying off his face. When he’d managed to get his breath back, he reached out, groping; someone pushed his glasses into his hand, apologizing profusely in Russian. Yuuri didn’t spare a moment to listen, just pushed himself to his feet again and bolted in the direction he’d been running before. As he finally cleared the barrier beside the taxi stand, he saw that familiar head of silver hair, ducking into the back of a cab and closing the door.

“Victor!” he shouted again, waving his arms as he ran, but the cab pulled away. Yuuri let his steps grow heavier and heavier, finally slowing to a stop. He’d never felt so defeated in his life, even when he’d been _literally defeated_ in competitions. He’d made it within inches of Victor, during the _fireworks_ no less, how romantic would _that_ have been, but he hadn’t made it. It was fitting, he thought bitterly. Wasn’t this how it always happened with Yuuri? Coming in second to Yurio by a tenth of a point at the Grand Prix Final. Getting his chance to skate against Victor in Sochi, and coming in last. He was forever within arm’s length of his dreams, but not quite close enough to grab them.

But no. Fuck that. That was the _old_ Yuuri, the one who flubbed his jumps and drowned his sorrows in fried food. He was Katsuki Yuuri now, a different Katsuki Yuuri, the one who’d just won Japanese Nationals and given Victor Nikiforov a mind-blowing orgasm over the phone afterward. He was the Yuuri who worked his literal ass off and broke his idol’s world records and moved across the globe for the man he loved. And he would be _damned_ if he was going to give up now.

He jogged toward a cab, thinking furiously. Victor was leaving, and not with his friends. Makkachin had been alone for hours. He had to be heading home, right? Where else would he go? Yuuri climbed into a cab and gave the driver Victor’s address, laughing a little at the irony of it all, of ending the night where it all began.

They pulled away from the curb and Yuuri settled into the seat, exhaustion tugging at him. It was tempting to take a nap, since they’d likely spend the next hour in traffic. Something wasn’t sitting quite right with him, though. That fake smile on Victor’s face; his blank expression during the fireworks; the fact that he’d left early during the part everyone came to see. Yuuri’s own thoughts echoed through his mind from a few moments earlier: _where it all began._ Suddenly, for the first time all night, he knew exactly where Victor was going.

It hadn’t begun at Victor’s apartment. For the two of them, everything began on the ice.

“Sorry,” he barked in English, hoping the driver would understand. “I need to go somewhere else, please.”

* * * * * 

Yuuri stood outside the doors to Victor’s rink for the second time that night. They were locked again, but this time, Yuuri had a key. He fished it out of his pocket, wondering if Yakov had somehow known he’d end up here tonight. The man was terrifying, but Yuuri could see why Victor loved him. And he knew Yakov loved Victor in return.

He made his way out to the ice, through the darkened foyer and past the empty offices. The echoing strains of a very familiar song guided him toward the ice; he could make out Victor’s solitary figure, twirling in the dim light. As he approached the opening in the rink wall, he hung back, overcome with emotion.

Victor was skating _Yuri on Ice._ It was Yuuri’s routine, down to the last Ina Bauer, the music playing quietly from Victor’s phone. He skated it beautifully—of course he did, he’d coached Yuuri through every one of these movements—but his energy was all wrong. Every line of his body spoke of sadness and pining, not triumphant love. His eyes looked far away, not focused on the music or the motions, and it all clicked into place. Victor had come here to skate Yuuri’s routine, to feel  close to Yuuri. Victor _missed_ him.

The last notes of the song wound down, and Victor ended it as Yuuri always had, one hand over his heart and the other extended toward the side of the rink. He faced away from Yuuri, pointing to no one, chest heaving with exertion. And Yuuri knew, with a clarity he’d never felt before, that everything tonight had gone just as it was meant to. He couldn’t propose to Victor in front of ten thousand people, beneath fireworks. It always had to be this, had to be the two of them and the ice, and no one else.

“That was beautiful,” Yuuri said at last, and Victor whirled around so quickly he overbalanced and nearly fell. “Katsuki Yuuri couldn’t have done it better.”

Victor’s eyes were wide as saucers, his mouth slightly open, all of his attention fixed on Yuuri’s face. He didn’t move, just stood frozen in the center of the ice as though Yuuri might disappear if he came any closer.

“You...you’re here,” Victor whispered, the sound carrying across the ice clear as day. “Yuuri.”

“I should have brought my skates,” Yuuri said, gesturing to the ice between them. “Think you’re gonna have to come to me.”

Tentatively, Victor skated forward, still watching Yuuri like a deer in headlights. When he reached the edge of the ice, Yuuri reached up and brushed his hair out of his eyes; Victor let out a full-body sigh and leaned into the touch, the tension bleeding out of him.

“This is why you didn’t answer my calls,” he murmured, nuzzling into Yuuri’s palm. “I thought...I don’t know. Maybe you didn’t miss me like I missed you.”

“The opposite, actually. I missed you so much I couldn’t wait any longer. Sorry I’m late.”

“Late for what?” Victor asked, his tone turning playful, and he reached out to draw Yuuri into his arms; his brow furrowed in confusion when Yuuri stepped back, evading him with a smile. He hoped Victor could be patient a moment longer. Yuuri had been waiting all night to say it, after all.

“Как Новый год встретишь, так его и проведешь,” Yuuri said carefully, hoping his rehearsed pronunciation was clear enough to be understood—but judging by the thunderstruck expression on Victor’s face, he thought it was. “You’re supposed to start the year how you want to spend it, right?”

“So they say,” Victor managed, his hushed voice barely audible even in the silent room. Yuuri smiled at him. For once in his life, he didn’t feel anxious at all; the question was so easy, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t asked it already. Fighting back the tears that suddenly threatened to escape, he lowered himself to one knee. One of Victor’s hands flew up to cover his mouth, and he stared at Yuuri with wide, glistening eyes.

“Spend it with me,” Yuuri said simply, reaching up to hold Victor’s free hand, twisting his ring with two fingers. “Spend all of them with me, Vitya. Every one, for the rest of our lives.” He swallowed hard. “Marry me, Victor Nikiforov. Please say you’ll marry me.”

The flurry of movement caught Yuuri off-guard: Victor all but yanked him to his feet, his arms going around Yuuri’s ribs. In his skates he towered over Yuuri, but he pulled the shorter man close, bringing their mouths together in a rush. Straining up on his tiptoes, Yuuri kissed back with every iota of the longing and hope and desire he’d felt, every emotion that had gotten him on a plane nearly thirty-six hours before. Even after only a week apart, kissing Victor felt like coming home. It felt like the waves along Hasetsu’s coast and the slide of a blade over untouched ice, familiar comfort and butterflies of excitement all at once. Their cheeks were wet; who was crying? Yuuri decided it didn’t really matter. His hand slid up into Victor’s silver hair and tugged a little, which he knew made Victor weak in the knees. Unfortunately, he’d forgotten that he was sort of dependent on the structural integrity of Victor’s knees while the taller man was supporting them both; Victor overbalanced and they tumbled over in a pile just off the ice, laughing a little hysterically.

As their laughter subsided, Victor beamed down at Yuuri with damp, warm eyes. “You’re always full of surprises, aren’t you,” he murmured, fingers toying with Yuuri’s hair where they cradled the back of his head. Yuuri wanted to grin back at him—he could feel it tugging at the corners of his mouth—but he just needed one word, one tiny word of confirmation.

“Is that a yes?” he asked, a little out of breath from the fall and the sheer power of Victor’s brilliant eyes on him. Impossibly, Victor’s smile went even wider, and he leaned down to rest their foreheads together.

“Yes,” he breathed, and the last of Yuuri’s anxiety went soaring away, leaving him lighter than he’d ever dreamed. “Yes. Yes. Of course I will.”

They kissed again, neither one of them willing to move long enough to get up off the floor. Yuuri’s arms went around Victor’s waist, desperate for all the contact he could get. After some unspecified length of lazy kissing later, Yuuri broke away long enough to ask, “You’re really going to marry me?”

It wasn’t anxiety. He was sure of the answer. (Really, totally sure.) He just wanted to hear it again.

“I would have married you the night we met,” Victor confessed, chuckling, and _that_ was a surprise. Yuuri drew back enough to stare at him, mouth open in shock.

“In Sochi? We were drunk! We were _so_ drunk!”

“It would have been the best decision anyone ever made while _that_ drunk,” Victor said solemnly, and Yuuri laughed.

“Can’t argue with that. Still…” He reached up a hand to brush Victor’s hair out of his eyes again, reveling in the way his eyes fell shut and his face turned pink. “I’m glad we ended up here, now. In our own time.”

“Well,” Victor said, nuzzling against Yuuri’s jawline, _“your_ timing couldn’t be better.”

“Oh?” Yuuri asked, flushing pink from what felt like head to toe.

“Oh, yes, _zolotse._ You see…” He tugged lightly at the zipper of Yuuri’s coat, pressing his mouth against the newly-revealed skin. Yuuri clutched at him, feeling light-headed even while lying down. “I want to spend the whole year making love to you. And as you wisely said, you should always start the year how you plan to spend it.”

Katsuki Yuuri was the smartest man alive.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I got into YOI about two years late and fell HARD for these two. I'll probably end up writing a few more one-shots and maybe a longer chapter fic, but I'm trying to be good and finish my half-completed long fic first (a 150k+ Stardew Valley romance that nobody asked for, because why not ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯).
> 
> Have a happy New Year!


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